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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260284">a backward somersault of senses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYesterdayShow/pseuds/TheYesterdayShow'>TheYesterdayShow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sanders Sides (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Nightmares, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Panic Attacks, Roman can't sleep, Sleep Deprivation, and he doesn't want to, based on how i 'slept' last night, because bad things happen when he sleeps, just in his head, light body horror, not like in the physical world</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:15:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,695</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260284</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYesterdayShow/pseuds/TheYesterdayShow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t too late—probably, he wasn’t sure—when Roman found himself sitting up. He’d gone to bed at around 10:30? Then he hadn’t fallen asleep for … a shady amount of time, which he couldn’t remember. Had he gone to sleep? Was he even awake? Probably not, nothing quite felt real yet. There was still that dream-feel, that incessant need to sort everything he could see into his dream. How did it fit into the previously-set six categories? It had too fit perfectly, but as he let himself fall back onto his pillow, he realized that perhaps he was awake. Awake was bad, because awake-stuff didn’t fit. Everything had to fit.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a backward somersault of senses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A/N: After a harrowing night, our author decides to project … onto Roman? What a shocking turn of events.<br/>In all seriousness, I had a Bad Night last night and I figured I cannot be the only one to experience this. Gave myself some Icky Feelings while writing it, but hopefully someone can relate to it, and feel heard.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p>It wasn’t too late—probably, he wasn’t sure—when Roman found himself sitting up. He’d gone to bed at around 10:30? Then he hadn’t fallen asleep for … a shady amount of time, which he couldn’t remember. Had he gone to sleep? Was he even awake? Probably not, nothing quite felt real yet. There was still that dream-feel, that incessant need to sort everything he could see into his dream. How did it fit into the previously-set six categories? It had too fit perfectly, but as he let himself fall back onto his pillow, he realized that perhaps he was awake. Awake was bad, because awake-stuff didn’t fit. It was time to not be awake, Roman decided, tugging on the blanket that was tangled in his legs. His eyes closed breathing slowed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It didn’t fit. The face was all wrong, and too yellow—those faces had to be green and it wasn’t right, because it was missing … something. Something was missing and now everything was wrong and nothing would be okay because Roman was stuck, he was trapped in this not-sleep, in this torturous whirl that made him sob, arch his back and—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Roman found himself sitting up. When had he gone to bed? Around 10:30? He hadn’t fallen asleep immediately, head spinning with thoughts and ideas for a new story. He had no idea how long that had been, though. Had he really slept at all? Was he actually awake now? Probably not, everything was too hazy. There was still that dream-feel, that itching in his spine, the incessant need to sort everything he could see into the sense of his dream. It would do no good to be awake, just make it harder to scratch that itch, so Roman eased himself back down, wondering why his nose was stuffed up. His eyes flickered shut.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It didn’t fit. There wasn’t enough yellow, too much blockiness, and it had to be smooth, so smooth. It had to be flat, flat flat flat. It wasn’t, and it wasn’t right, and his skin screamed as Roman tore at his lungs. What was on his face? He wasn’t he, he was who? Who was he? What was happening why didn’t it fit fit fit why couldn’t he make it fit why didn’t he fit <em>why wouldn’t it fit</em>—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Roman found himself sitting up.How long had he been in bed? Since around 10:30, he thought. Was his room darker? Had he slept? Was he even awake? Probably not, everything felt too wrong. He itched deep inside, and his nose was stuffed up. Those weren’t awake-Roman things (they weren’t asleep-Roman things either, but he couldn’t think about that right now). It still felt like a dream, still too empty and needing to be filled and sorted, so Roman decided he could close his eyes again. Everything would sort itself out if he just let the flat, colored faces take him back in. Roman sank back onto his pillow and rolled over, facing the opposite side of the too-dark room.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It didn’t fit. Too much yellow too much yellow too much yellow. Flat flat flat flat flat flat flat <em>flat</em> flat flat colors colors scream. Scream. Scream scream scream <em>scream</em>. Don’t fit don’t fit please please please fit please fit why why why why why why why help scream. Scream. Burning help help help help help help why why<em> fit</em> please please wrong wrong wrong <em>too much</em> no wrong wrong wrong help help flat flat flat flat flat flat flat help help wrong wrong wrong help flat flat too much too much too much too much too much too much flat flat flat flat flat flat flat help <em>burning</em> scream scream scream flat flat flat flat flat <em>flat flat</em>—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Roman found himself sitting up, and this time, he didn’t hold back as he let out a sob. The terrible awful burning sorting, it was bleeding into this, now, he was supposed to be awake, he <em>wanted</em> to be awake. His stuffed-up nose choked him, and he cried harder, he couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t escape, and nothing was right, nothing fit and it wasn’t flat flat flat flat flat. Roman tore at his chest, his stomach, his back, trying to get the sorting out of him, trying to make it good and okay and soothed. He’d been in bed since around 10:30, hadn’t he—it—he—it—he? Why was his room so dark? Had he ever fallen asleep? Was he even awake now? Probably not, he just needed to let his head rest and—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Stop,” Roman rasped. He couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t keep going, let it pull him in to that whirlpool that only led to the darkest of burning. He could feel it pulling at him, dragging on the itching of his spine—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oomph.” Roman let out a grunt as he rolled off his bed. His nose pressed into the cool hardwood floors, and he let himself sigh—not too deep, though. He didn’t want to feel the pull.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Standing up helped him wake a bit, so he kept standing and stumbled into the bathroom. The bright lights forced him to squint slightly, but didn’t give him the system shock he’d hoped for. Roman got himself a drink of water, then splashed some onto his blotchy face. He felt marginally more awake, so it would probably be okay to return to his bed. One look in the direction, however, made him shiver. The burning in him, feeling like ants running up and down his spine, begged him to give in. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye as Roman left his room and quietly closed the door.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The living room was dark, but a wave of Roman’s hand flicked the light switch up and he could see. It felt wrong, still, as if he was dreaming or watching a film of his living room, but that didn’t matter. The clock ticked too loudly in the carpeted silence, and Roman gave it a split second of attention before turning away. Then looked back. 11:45? Only 11:45? He was certain he’d been trapped in—too long—the burning—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Roman tore his attention away from the squirming in his core and stepped into the kitchen, turning the light on there too. It was strange, to be the only one up—not that this was his first time, but experience didn’t make it feel anymore solid. Everything was still hazy, as if he was back in bed and sorting and tearing and sobbing.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Physically shaking his head almost did something to fight the itching. He knew that what surrounded him was real, it just didn’t feel right. Looking up—how long had he been staring at his bare feet?—he saw a slight glow coming out from under Virgil’s door. Somehow, it helped to ground him a little. Knowing that he was truly awake, and he wasn’t the only one, made the rooms around him feel more in-focus, more real.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Not getting back to sleep,” Roman sang lightly, “time to find something to do. Not getting back to sleep, it’s okay but I wish I was through.” he frowned. “That sucked,” he muttered to himself. “You can do better.” At the moment, however, he was fully aware that he couldn’t do better. The torturous wriggling within his soul hadn’t died down, so it was time to pick a movie and sprawl out on the floor.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Half an hour—an hour—an hour and twenty minutes—time crept slowly, slower than it would have dared had the sun been out. Roman wasn’t really watching the movie, focused more closely on scrolling through every social media app repeatedly. He had somewhat relaxed, no longer crying or throwing himself around in an attempt to ease the itching. Now he was slumped, shoulders pressed against the sofa, back twisted strangely in the most comfortable position he’d found thus far. Occasionally he was hit with a wave of cold and shivers, and in those moments he would summon his blanket from his bed to awkwardly drape over himself. Mere minutes later he would be too warm, too uncomfortable to have it anywhere near him, and it would be banished until he next shivered.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A surprisingly loud shout came from the TV, and Roman cringed before twisting in another direction, the squirming deep within suddenly too much to bear in that position.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Another hour—one more minute—two minutes—four minutes—his eyes were beginning to droop slightly as the movie reached its close, but Roman only snapped his fingers and another was playing. He wasn’t planning on any sleep for a while.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Eventually—two more hours—he felt like he could handle it. His bed sounded cool and inviting, so he turned off the TV and all the lights with a sweep of his hand, rolling himself to his feet and trudging back to his room. The light was off in Virgil’s room by now, which was good. The emo nightmare needed some sleep.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Roman was right. His bed was cool, any vestiges of his body heat lost in the hours he’d spent in the living room. He settled in nicely, the pillow cushioning his head not quite right, but good enough. He could catch a few hours of sleep. Even one hour sounded amazing. It would be fine, he barely even felt the—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Don’t think about it</em>, Roman admonished himself. If he didn’t think about it, he would be fine.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>After another twenty minutes of tossing and turning, Roman let his eyes slip shut and his body relax as he fell into sleep.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It didn’t fit, though, did it? It had fit at one point, he knew, because surely the face had been green and flat, flat flat flat, but now it wasn’t. It was weird and not right and him, and he couldn’t get it off, and it grabbed his spine and pulled until he screamed silently. He could fix it, fix it fix it fix it, but it wasn’t flat and too flat and didn’t fit didn’t fit didn’t fit <em>didn’t fit</em>—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Roman found himself sitting up.</p>
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